


Hero

by Kauri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Age Difference, Although Loghain remains a bit of a bastard, Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Breathplay, Choking, Complex relationships, Enemy Lovers, Frottage, Hate Sex, Hero Worship, Lovers to enemies to lovers, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oren Cousland says fuck a lot, Pining, but not underage, hurt and not a lot of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26245447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kauri/pseuds/Kauri
Summary: The Landsmeet is over. The Archdemon looms. But before Oren Cousland can end the blight and save the world, he needs to decide the fate of Loghain Mac Tir, a man he's definitely not in love with anymore; a man he just might hate.*A tale of broken noses and broken hearts.
Relationships: Cousland/Loghain Mac Tir, Loghain Mac Tir/Warden, Male Cousland/Loghain Mac Tir
Comments: 19
Kudos: 39
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaijuburgers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuburgers/gifts).



Oren Cousland is drunk.

But not drunk enough.

There’s a serenity, surely, waiting at the bottom of a bottle that he hasn’t found yet. And he is nothing if not determined to find it.

Stubborn determination has carried him this far, after all.

He’s in the kitchens — second kitchens? Some over-stuffed yet tidy room near the wine cellar. It smells comfortingly of food and flame, and is as much a balm to his frazzled senses as the drink. Moreso perhaps.

There are oil lamps strung along the walls, but the fire in the room is smokey-low and dim, flickering erratically as though uncertain if it ought to go out. He lifts his latest bottle and pours. The glass fills so quickly some of the wine spills out over the rim and over his fingers. A puddle of deep burgundy forms on the table, glossy as velvet. 

_The first time they kissed, Loghain wore a burgundy tunic._

But that was years ago.

And he is not nearly drunk enough to go wandering into _those_ memories, no matter how close they press to the surface.

Oren lowers his mouth to the glass, carefully slurping up the excess wine as the door to the room slides open, wood creaking and shifting heavily. Alastair blinks. “Sorry. Didn’t think anyone would be here. What are you doing up at this hour?”

The drunken detritus on the table should be obvious enough. 

Oren lifts his wine glass carefully. It’s still rather full. “Celebrating.” 

Alastair raises a single auburn brow, but makes no comment. Instead he crosses the room, boots dragging heavily across the polished floors and sits in the chair opposite his fellow Warden. 

Or, _ex-_ fellow Warden. No one has bothered to explain if Kings get to be Wardens after all.

“We won, didn’t we?” Oren says, voice rough from the wine. “Successful landsmeet and all.”

Only it doesn't feel that way. Not really.

Surely victory ought to carry with it some semblance of satisfaction. Of accomplishment.

Alistair is quiet and still. Brow furrowed. Everything about him has changed to a striking degree. So much at odds with the half-giddy, nervous energy he usually displays. “What do you intend to do with him?”

_Loghain._

_Strong hands and broad shoulders. Eyes like grey steel in the candlelight. A hard mouth, and hard kisses. Each one sweet, and salty, and stolen._

Oren dips his fingertip into the puddle of spilled wine, and tries not to frown. “You’re the King now. I should think that deciding the fate of prisoners to the crown falls to you.” 

For the barest moment, Alistair looks _old._ Then he reaches across the table and snags Oren’s wineglass, draining what’s left in three long swallows. “Loghain’s crimes were foremost against the Order. _You’ve_ been our Warden Commander for the better part of a year. Doesn’t matter that you were never officially promoted.”

“Weisshaupt might disagree.” Oren says drily, and pours Alistair another glass of wine.

“Weisshaupt can go bugger itself, for all the help they’ve been.” Alistair mutters. He swirls the wine in the glass, but doesn’t drink. “It’s your call. I’ll stand by you, whatever you decide. I owe you that, at least.”

“Poor thanks, if you ask me.” Oren’s mouth twists into something that is almost a smile. “Couldn’t you just shower me with riches and titles? Half-naked noble women?”

“I hear Gwaren needs a new Teryn.”

He gives Alistair a startled look even as his insides twist, unsure if it’s a joke or not. Alistair is rarely cruel, but… 

… things have changed.

Alistair holds his eyes for a moment, copper gaze unreadable before he grimaces and heaves a tired sigh. “Sorry. It’s… it’s been a day.”

“I know,” Oren swallows hard. “ For what it’s worth, I’m… sorry too.”

“I’m sorry… _your Majesty.”_ Alistair’s brow quirks up, and the line of his mouth eases, just a little. Just for a moment. 

Oren snorts, and clinks his wine bottle against Alistair’s wine glass. “I’m sorry, your Majesty.”

Alistair takes a drink, and the line of his mouth twists. “In war, victory.” he says so quietly, it is almost to himself.

*

In the morning, when Oren wakes, it isn’t really morning. The sun is already climbing down from his peak, and he has the grain of the table etched into his left cheek, a monstrous headache thundering through his right temple, and a deep sense of regret for that last bottle of wine.

Or bot _tles_. Plural.

He’s not even sure how many he regrets, because he’s not sure how many he _had_ — some industrious soul has already dispatched the remains of the celebration. But it had been an expensive evening.

And for all his excess he had never quite reached that floaty place where he could forget about Loghain, their past, and the decision laid out before him.

Loghain had been found guilty of treason, and had been summarily stripped of his titles and position. Even his daughter had failed to speak in his defense.

Fereldan judgement is swift. Fereldan punishment, even swifter. The nobility may have backed them in the Landsmeet, but it would not go well for the new King were he to falter in the dispatch of justice.

But Loghain’s crimes carried a particularly personal sting for Oren. 

So he bathes, and changes into his cleanest uniform, donning a warrior’s full plate. Even strapping steel to his hips. He doesn’t shave. His hands shake too badly to manage a blade, but the quarter-inch of stubble makes him feel unkempt –– and the bloodshot eyes don’t help – too much like a year-old Warden who sleeps in a muddy tent, and too little like a man fit to judge the Hero of River Dane.

He tugs a hand through his dark curls feeling suddenly as though he were fifteen again, half in love with a man he’d known since boyhood, watching him cross the length of his father’s hall, and silently begging to be noticed.

He hadn’t been –– not then. 

But then, one year, there had been a kiss. And then another. And then it was more than just kisses. And Loghain’s yearly visits had become twice a year, and then, every few months, and then every month.

And Oren had thought— 

But then Loghain’s visits had ceased abruptly, and without explanation.

That had hurt.

But what came next hurt even worse.

Rendon Howe, Loghain’s right hand, had swept in and murdered Oren’s entire family.

And everything that had happened from then until now had been a blur of grief and betrayal and bloodshed. 

He frowns at himself in the mirror.

This will be the first time in two years that he has spoken to Loghain alone.

He remembers the last time, though they’d barely spoken then. Loghain had kissed him breathless in the hall outside his room. And inside…

Oren shakes his head as hard as he can to stop the memories from coming. Even so they punch through, bright bursts of starlight behind his eyelids. The drag of Loghain’s fingertips across bare skin. The feel of his mouth curling into a smile. The taste of him. The mass of dark hair in Oren’s hands. The rumbling sounds of pleasure Loghain always kept locked tight in his chest. 

It feels like a thousand years ago.

Everything has changed.

 _Everything._

And yet as he takes the long way to the part of the castle where Loghain is being held, he has to pause, and lean against the wall, hand against his face to still his breathing. There’s a sick sort of unease in his belly. Giddiness and dread and enough wine that he’s still halfway to drunk.

Maybe he just needs a good vomit.

There are a pair of guards stationed outside the door, but he orders them away. Whatever he means to say is for Loghain’s ears only. 

Oren takes a deep breath, and pushes the door open.

It is not what he had expected of a prison.

The room is large and richly furnished, with polished wood, and jewel-toned tapestries, and furs flung across every bare surface. There are no windows, but a fireplace is lit and well-stocked, casting the room in a warm, dramatic light. 

There are benefits to being the Queen’s father, it seems, no matter one’s crimes. 

Loghain is sitting near the fireplace, with a large book open on his lap, dark hair pulled back into a neat tail. He’s unarmed and unarmored, but Gwaren’s heraldic crest, a wyvern, done in gold thread, still winds down one of his shoulders.

_Figures._

“Loghain.” 

Loghain looks up slowly, supremely unconcerned. One finger presses to the page, marking his place in his book. “Has Maric’s bastard decided what’s to be done with me?”

Oren glares, hands curling into fists at his sides, though he refuses to rise to Loghain’s insult. “Your _King,”_ he says instead, leaning heavily on the word, “has sent me.”

“You,” Loghain says, voice expressionless. He looks Oren up and down with a calm sort of intensity. And if he recognizes him –– or remembers what they once shared –– he doesn’t acknowledge it. He tilts his head, inviting an answer. But the shadows shift along the sharp planes of his face, and all at once he’s too hard to look at –– too imperious, and starkly beautiful, even in his defeat.

Oren looks away.

The silence between them stretches before Loghain speaks again. “Do you know they call you the Hero of Ferelden?”

Oren clenches his jaw. “No one calls me that.”

“They will.” He snaps the book on his lap shut. The sound is startling enough that Oren looks back at him. “That should please you. You always did love… heroes.”

Oren’s heart gives a small, painful jolt. 

“So you do remember me.”

Loghain looks at him for a long time. And the world spins and spins, flickering between what was and what is. 

“At Ostagar you didn’t… you didn’t even…”

“What would you have had me do?” Loghain’s words are sharp, and his eyes even sharper. 

Oren has no answer. Nothing that isn’t childish or petulant. _Thousands_ died at Ostagar. 

_Duncan_ died at Ostagar. 

_Half_ of all living Wardens died at Ostagar.

He shakes his head, breathing heavily through his nose. He can still remember the stink of the battlefield, even before it began. An army is all noise and sweat and shit even before it is broken into pieces. And he and Alistair had watched it all from their tower. The tidal wave of Darkspawn crawling over the men below, and Loghain’s banners turning round, leaving them all to their fate. There’d been no sound –– they were up too high. But Alistair’s screams filled his ears, drowning out the tiny crack that splintered across his heart.

He really is a fucking child.

Loghain stands and moves closer, and Oren shifts from foot to foot. He won't back away, he _won't._ But having Loghain so close makes him uneasy. 

The table at the center of the room is laden with food, mostly untouched. Loghain uncorks a bottle and begins to pour. “Wine?”

Oren makes a sound of disbelief. _“No.”_

“Ori—”

“Don’t call me that!” Oren roars. Rage rises up so fast it nearly chokes him. “My _family_ called me that. Before Rendon Howe had them _slaughtered!”_

He doesn’t even realize he has his sword in his hand until Loghain moves to take it from him, grasping his wrist and twisting so sharply that for a moment everything goes numb from his elbow down. There’s a burst of pain, sharp and sweet, and Loghain has his sword.

This close his armor will make little difference. Loghain is well known for his unholy strength and brutality on the battlefield. And he has already tried to kill Oren. More than once.

More than twice.

A question burns his mouth. “Did you know?”

Loghain doesn’t answer, but his head tilts back slightly.

“Did. you. know.” Each word is as sharp as a slap, but it’s Oren who feels it. A bright broad sting across his heart. But he _has_ to know. He has to.

“I did.”

Without hesitating, Oren smashes his forehead against the bridge of Loghain’s nose. Everything whites out in a starburst of pain. The two men stagger away from each other swearing breathlessly. Oren holds himself up one handed as the room tilts wildly before righting itself with a nauseating _jolt._

Loghain is glaring at him, blood all down his upper lip and down his chin. His nose doesn’t look broken, but it’s already beginning to swell. _“Idiot,”_ he says stiffly and uses the hem of his tunic to stem the blood-flow.

Oren chuckles, thinking he is definitely, certainly, still at least a little drunk.

And maybe brain-damaged now.

Loghain tosses the sword aside, still glaring.

Maybe they’re both brain-damaged.

“Ori,” Loghain starts. 

“Fuck you,” he says.

Loghain sighs. _“Why_ do you ask questions when you don’t want the answer?”

“That’s fucking retorical too.” Oren mutters. The bottle has tipped over, spilling a stream of wine onto the carpet below.

_The first time they kissed, Loghain wore a burgundy tunic._

Loghain still has the tunic clamped over his nose. Fine linen spotted with blood. He pinches down a few more times, but the bleeding is already beginning to slow.

“Is it broken?” Oren asks.

“Probably.”

_“Good.”_

Loghain narrows his eyes and Oren nearly laughs again, still a little dizzy. “You don’t headbutt someone in a fight.”

“I didn’t realize we were fighting. I thought you were admitting to your part in the _slaughter of my family.”_

“No,” Loghain says, making a face at the splotches of blood all down his tunic. He peels it off, wads it into a ball and casts it into the fire. “You were asking questions you didn’t want answered.”

Oren wishes they hadn’t spilled the wine. It would give him something to do besides trying not to look at Loghain’s bare chest. 

“Alistair gave you the choice, didn’t he?”

Oren grunts, and picks at the grapes on the table. “Why? Trying to seduce me into sparing your life?”

Loghain’s mouth twists into something too dangerous to be a smile. “Never had to seduce you before.”

Now it’s Oren’s turn to glare even as his cock gives a _jolt_ in response. It never took much from Loghain to get him hard. But he’s older now, and hopefully not so easily baited.

But —

“Your birthday was two days ago,” Loghain says softly. 

Oren freezes. Even his heart stops beating, if only for a moment.

“Every year I came you asked me for a kiss.” Loghain takes a step forward, then pauses, brows knitted into a frown. His hand twitches at his side, fingers clenching and unclenching in tiny, measured movements. “I never understood why. But I gave it to you.”

“You never understood why you kissed me?”

“I never understood why you wanted to be kissed.”

Despite everything, Oren’s chest feels tight with a sudden longing. “I was raised on stories of you. The Hero of River Dane. The right hand of the King. You,” he says carefully, “were like the sun.”

“Maric was the sun. He was the golden boy. I was only ever his shadow.”

“Not to me,” Oren breathes. “You were my first.”

“I assumed,” Loghain says dryly.

Oren bites back a dozen sarcastic replies in an instant, but he’s tired, and his head hurts. And all that is left to him is honesty. “I was in love with you.” 

The sudden flare of anger in Loghain's eyes isn’t bright, but cold and bitter. He reaches out, almost calmly, and grasps Oren by the throat.

It’s so still and deliberate that Oren doesn’t jerk away, not until Loghain begins to squeeze. He tries to claw Loghain’s fingers off his neck, but Loghain barrels him backward, until the back of his legs hit the bed and they both tip over. Oren writhes trying to break away, but Loghain is monstrously strong, and has all the leverage.

He folds his hand into a fist and drives it into Loghain’s mid-section, but he uses the arm that’s still mostly numb, so Loghain grunts, but doesn’t let go.

“Murderer!” Oren hisses, thrashing ineffectually. “Fucking _coward!”_

Loghain has an extraordinary voice. Low, and rough and impeccably expressive. It could be bright, or thunderous, or sharply brittle as ice. But now it is so thin and thready it is difficult to hear. “You were never in love, Ori. You mistook hero worship for love, and now that you’ve finally grown up and realized the world isn’t made up of fairy tales, and happy endings, you want to blame me. Well go ahead.”

Oren grunts and tries to kick out, but Loghain’s weight is across his shins.

“One day there will be a boy who looks at you the way you looked at me. And you will have to explain to him that you became a hero because there was nothing, and no one that you weren’t willing to _shatter_ to do what must be done.” His fingers tighten, mercilessly. “Heroes aren’t _kind._ Heroes aren’t _just._ They don’t have that luxury.” 

Oren makes a choked sound as his breath falters. Tears run into his ears.

“And then he’ll look at you the way you are looking at me now,” Loghain says quietly. 

Oren manages to get a couple of fingers wedged beneath Loghain’s grip, and sucks in a thready breath. “That’s... because you’re choking me, you fuck.” 

“Or maybe all you ever wanted was a hand on your cock that wasn’t your own.”

Loghain leans in, the thumb of his free hand sweeping against Oren’s bottom lip and for a brief moment Oren thinks he might try to bite Loghain. But all he does is take a single, strained breath. 

And wait.

And wait.

His eyes flutter closed.

The grip on his neck relaxes a little.

And Loghain shifts closer, breath warm and unsteady. “Ori...”

The sound of his name in Loghain’s mouth twists inside him. He makes a tiny sound, dismay and distress and a bright streak of shame at his own inexplicable arousal. But then Loghain is kissing him, and the tumult of emotions dissolves into pure shock.

Loghain smells the same. Feels the same. Tastes the same. 

And Oren cannot help but press deeper into the kiss, even as his hand comes up to the broad expanse of Loghain’s chest, hovering, certain at any moment that he’ll push Loghain away.

But then he feels Loghain fumbling first at his belt, and then at the laces of his breeches, and then Loghain’s hand is cupping his bare cock. 

Oren’s head spins. He makes a sound that's a sob and a prayer, all harsh and broken and begging.

But his hand slips down Loghain’s chest, and starts working his trousers open. Loghain’s nearly entirely hard, and the shape of him in Oren’s hand is familiar and strange and overwhelming. 

What is he _doing?_

He ought to squeeze the fucker’s balls until they pop.

Loghain slots their bare cocks together, wraps them in his large hand. 

And Oren makes a shuddery sound through his nose. _Maker,_ it’s been so long...

“Did Maric’s boy not do this for you?”

“No,” he manages. “Fuck you.”

Loghain chuckles, the sound a low rumble. And Oren realizes he’s never heard him laugh.

And he wants…

_Maker what does he want?_

Loghain’s grip on his throat eases deliberately. “Take a breath,” he says.

Oren does. A full, sweet lungful, even though it hurts, and it hurts when Loghain grips his neck once again, clamping down. 

It goes quick after that. They’re both too riled up to savor anything. Loghain twists his hand around the pair of them as Oren tries to thrust up. There isn’t enough slick, but the sensation is still dizzying — sharp and insistent and _demanding._ Waves of pleasure rocket up Oren’s spine and radiate through his core. He grabs a handful of Loghain’s hair tugging him down for another kiss, until he’s thoroughly breathless and quite literally seeing stars.

Their cocks slide together, Loghain’s thumb brushing over the wet tips and the hand at his throat is like a vice, anchoring him, even as he drifts higher and higher and far far away. And Loghain growls something, rhythm suddenly jerky and harsh, and there’s a sudden slick of heat between them, and yes yes—

He bows off the bed as he comes, thrusting hard into Loghain’s fist. Any sound he might make is choked out of him, and there’s only a strangled silence and the quick sure sound of Loghain’s hand, as he guides Oren through his orgasm. 

Then all at once the hand at Oren’s throat is gone, and Loghain shifts, bending, taking his spent cock in his mouth, sucking hard enough it feels like he may bruise. 

Oren makes a startled cry, jerking bonelessly as the sensation rises, so sharp it’s almost painful. 

But it’s gone nearly at once, and then Loghain is kissing him again, mouth tasting of copper and salt and sin. 

A goodbye kiss.

They both know it.

“Loghain…” Oren’s voice cracks. Broken, ragged thing. “For the crimes you have committed against Fereldan, you will be put to death.” 

The room is perfectly quiet. As is Loghain’s expression. But he reaches down and brushes the backs of his knuckles across the faint stubble on Oren’s cheek. The only bit of tenderness he has shown the entire night.

His eyes shine faintly with approval.

Oren slides a hand across his own abdomen, half expecting to find himself gutted and bleeding though Loghain had tossed away the sword. It hurts just as much. 

More, even.

He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, as much to stop the ragged sounds of his breathing as to scrub away the feeling of the kiss, of the taste of himself and Loghain in his mouth. 

  
  


*

It is a small group who gathers in the early morning for the execution. The weather in the courtyard is properly morose. The sky, a solid sheet of grey, dark with the threat of rain. It is wet everywhere, the trees droop, heavy with dew, and the ground is scattered with silver-brown puddles.

It is a rather peaceful place to die.

None of Loghain’s supporters are present. Neither is the Queen. But Alistair is there, dressed in his Warden armor, and hefting a great, two-handed sword. He has a wide silver band upon his brow, not precisely a crown, but a clear mark of his new status. With his hair slicked back, and his expression dark and severe, he looks nothing at all like the young man he’d been — and every inch a King.

In turn, Loghain looks like the man he’s always been. Straight backed and severe, head to toe in black doeskin and velvet, with his hair loose upon his shoulders. He looks like the whole affair is beneath him. The spectacular bruising across the bridge of his nose and beneath both eyes is all that is out of place. 

“Loghain Mac Tir,” Alistair’s voice cuts through the silence. “For crimes against Ferelden and her people, and for grievous harm done to the Order during a blight; the Ferelden Wardens sentence you to death. _Kneel.”_

Nothing shifts in Loghain’s expression as he drops silently to his knees. He obeys, but concedes nothing.

Alistair raises his sword, the weight of it dragging against time itself. Slowly slowly the world stills.

A drop of rain suspended in the sky.

It might be blood. It _ought_ to be blood.

Red. Crimson. Burgundy.

_The first time they kissed, Loghain wore a burgundy tunic._

Oren closes his eyes. Hears his own breath begin to splinter apart.

He knows what happens next. The slice of the sword. The thunk and squish of finality. The silence. Long, dark hair spilling across the flagstones, still and wet. Grey-blue eyes unseeing, slowly filling with rain.

Oren gags.

“L-Loghain…” His voice is weak. Scratchy and half-broken from the bruises from Loghain’s hands that ring his throat. He coughs, nearly retching, and steps forward. “Loghain…” He takes another, and then another, and then his feet carry him, tripping over himself, stumbling as he rushes forward faster than the blade can fall. “I conscript you to the Wardens!” It feels like something tears, and he clutches at his throat, coughs again, and spits out blood. “Loghain Mac Tir, I conscript you to the Wardens.” This time at least, his voice is clear.

Stillness.

Silence.

No matter how long he lives he’ll never forget the look on Alistair’s face. 

A raw thing, torn open and bleeding for the world to see. Then Alistair swallows it all behind a mask of utter blankness. He lowers the sword slowly. “Out.”

No one moves. 

“Everyone, _out!”_ Alistair bellows. 

It takes a moment. Long, shocked moments of silence and shuffling feet before the courtyard is cleared. Only the Wardens, and the new Warden conscript remain.

It begins to rain.

Loghain turns to Oren, still kneeling. “Have you gone mad?” he asks mildly.

“The Wardens need men.” He answers Loghain, but looks at Alistair, pleading. “Whatever they’ve done... their crimes are erased once they are conscripted and take the joining.”

Alistair’s shoulder’s shift, a nervous sort of twitch like he wants to shake his head, but can’t. 

“I’m sorry,” Oren tells Alistair raggedly.

“I told you it was your decision, so I’ll stand by it.” A breath, and Alastair flings the sword to the ground in a clatter of steel, expression stony. “But I won’t make that mistake again.”

He stalks away just as the skies spill in earnest. The rain becomes a downpour, a rush of sound that swallows even the broken sounds of Oren’s breathing. A single flicker of lighting arcs across the sky. 

Oren closes his eyes, thunder in his ears. Rain sting the back of his neck, and slide beneath his collar. He doesn’t realize he’s tipping over until he feels his knees slam into the wet cobblestones. 

He feels Loghain’s arms come up around him, fingers at the collar of his uniform, undoing the buttons, easing the constriction against his throat. It takes a few moments kneeling together in the rain, but Oren’s breath comes easier. 

“He hates me now,” Oren says hoarsely. 

“It’s me he hates.”

Oren shakes his head wearily. “I’ve married him to a woman who doesn’t love him. Bedded him to a woman who can’t stand him. And now this.” 

Loghain snorts. “If keeping his favor was so important, you should not have spared me.”

Oren feels something slide down the bridge of his nose. Tears, or rain. “Why is throwing people away so easy for you?”

“You mistake what is easy, for what is necessary,” Loghain sighs. “I’m not sure you’ll make a very good hero.”

“Unlike you?”

Loghain takes a deep breath. “I am not so concerned with being _good.”_

“Well that’s a fucking _revelation.”_ Oren mutters.

Unbelievably, Loghain laughs. It isn’t a cruel sound. Or a bright one. It is soft and strangely warm.

It is still raining heavily.

And Loghain’s arms are still around him.

Oren swallows hard. “Why is it so easy to fall in love, and so hard to fall out of it?”

Loghain doesn’t reply.

And he doesn’t let go.

“I didn’t spare you,” Oren elaborates after a moment. “You may die in the joining. Or get promptly eaten by an archdemon if you don’t. And the uniforms are itchy.”

“I consider myself unspared.” Loghain says solemnly. 

And together they sit in the rain, not speaking. Not moving.

And for a brief moment, Oren thinks he feels the touch of a feather-light kiss upon his brow, but he can’t be sure.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Picked this pairing there's nothing better for a rare-pair exchange than falling for a pairing you'd never even though of. :) 
> 
> *
> 
> Looking forward, I'm totally torn between Loghain and Cousland eventually working it out, or Cousland dying during the battle with the archdemon (I like it when the dark ritual is a little less of a certain outcome), and Loghain ending up as the last remaining Ferelden Warden, and having to rebuild the Order beneath a King who absolutely still fucking hates his guts.
> 
> But I feel like this pairing just screams angst, so I'm probably leaning towards the latter. :)


End file.
